


Another World For Us

by skywalkersamidala



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, history who? don't know her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 06:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17975957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkersamidala/pseuds/skywalkersamidala
Summary: And in a movement of pure, visceral instinct, Francesco lunged forward to put himself between Lorenzo and the knife.





	Another World For Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sol_Invictus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sol_Invictus/gifts).



> I was like "I'm gonna write a serious and realistic fix-it" but then it just devolved into Lorenzo/Francesco fluff because this is me we're talking about. So you can expect a way too optimistic and perfect resolution here lmao also I tried so hard to deal with Clarice in a thoughtful way bc I've always hated when female characters get unceremoniously shoved aside to make way for non-canon m/m pairings aaaand I'm not sure I did it successfully but i Tried okay I really do love Clarice she is an angel
> 
> edit: I forgot to mention that I tweaked this slightly so that Francesco was assigned to kill Lorenzo during mass rather than Giuliano, hence why he's standing behind Lorenzo and not Giuliano

Francesco exchanged a glance with the others and in unison they all quietly drew their daggers. His heart started beating faster as he returned his gaze to Lorenzo sitting in front of him. Sitting with his back to him, completely vulnerable and exposed, no idea what was about to happen.

Francesco felt his hands start to tremble and he tried to steady them, tightening his now-sweaty grip on his dagger. He had to do this. He had to free Florence from the tyranny of the Medici. This was the right thing to do. They would be hailed as saviors, as liberators of Florence.

Then why did Francesco feel like he was about to be sick?

His eyes bored into Lorenzo’s back, trying to prepare himself to plunge his knife into it. Only just now Francesco’s hands had been there, embracing Lorenzo like a brother. Lies on his tongue as he promised friendship and a desire to start anew.

 _I always meant for us to be friends, Francesco,_ Lorenzo had said with that characteristic earnestness, that naivety. That foolish idealism that led him to believe everybody was as good-hearted as he himself was. Oh, how Francesco hated him.

Oh, how Francesco loved him.

Suddenly all he could think of was that year he’d been a friend of the Medici. That year he’d been married to Novella. That year he’d had a family. That year he’d been happy.

Lorenzo had been a part of that happiness, such a large part. _Young Medici throws scraps off his table, you lap them up and pronounce yourself satisfied,_ Jacopo had said scathingly. Perhaps he’d been right; Francesco remembered all too well how a single smile from Lorenzo could make him feel like he had conquered the entire world. Remembered feeling that he would do anything to have that smile bestowed upon him.

How, then, would it feel to have Lorenzo’s blood staining his hands?

The bell was ringing. Everyone knelt to pray, except for Francesco and the other conspirators. Jacopo glanced over at them. It was time. Out of the corner of his eye, Francesco saw Maffei raise his knife, saw it swishing downwards towards Lorenzo’s unprotected back.

And in a movement of pure, visceral instinct, Francesco lunged forward to put himself between Lorenzo and the knife.

Pain exploded across his body and he fell forwards onto Lorenzo, nearly knocking him to the floor. Lorenzo exclaimed in surprise, and Francesco could see his bewilderment turn to horror as he saw the blood, as he saw Maffei standing behind him with his dagger still drawn.

Pandemonium was erupting around them, people screaming and starting to run for the doors as they saw what was happening. “Lorenzo,” Francesco panted, clutching his side and wincing in pain. “Lorenzo, run.”

Lorenzo opened his mouth to respond, but then several conspirators descended on him with their weapons drawn and he scrambled to his feet, pulling his own knife from his belt. Francesco tried to stand, tried to help him, but he couldn’t manage it. He let himself sink the rest of the way down onto the floor, hissing softly as the movement made his injury throb.

Francesco felt like he was watching the scene from outside his body. Lorenzo was fighting off several conspirators, and when he turned his head he could see Giuliano fighting a few more. Lucrezia and Clarice were shouting at them to hide in the sacrosanct. Where were Guglielmo and Bianca? Francesco had seen them at mass, had been dismayed that his false invitation to the countryside hadn’t worked, but now they were nowhere in sight.

“Guglielmo,” he whispered, struggling to sit up and look around for his brother, but his surroundings were too chaotic and he was too weak. He fell back to the floor, gasping for breath and fighting hard not to black out.

Now most of the conspirators were fleeing, too cowardly to continue a fight they knew they’d already lost. Giuliano struck down one of the few remaining men, though Francesco couldn’t tell if the blow was fatal. With the last of his energy he turned his head back over to look for Lorenzo. And his heart nearly stopped.

Lorenzo was on the floor, scrambling backwards to get away from Jacopo, who stood over him brandishing a dagger. Lorenzo’s had been knocked out of his hand and was lying out of reach several feet away from him. Giuliano was busy fending off the last of the conspirators, and there was no one else around to help.

“No,” Francesco said, too faintly for anyone but himself to hear.

“This ends now, Medici,” Jacopo snarled.

Suddenly Francesco felt a burst of adrenaline, and his pain vanished. His fingers curled again around his dagger and he dragged himself to his feet. He stumbled over to Lorenzo, moving to stand protectively in front of him and turning to face his uncle.

“Don’t,” he said. “Uncle, stop this now.”

Jacopo tutted derisively. “Have you grown _soft_ on me, nephew? I thought you were better than that.”

_Francesco, the world doesn’t have to be this way. We could change it._

_The world is the way it is for good reason._

_As long as Florentine families are at each other’s throats, it will never be as good as it could be._

Francesco heard Lorenzo getting to his feet behind him. If he could just distract Jacopo a moment longer so that Lorenzo could escape or grab his dagger…Francesco was dizzy and short of breath, but he spoke again. “Mercy is—not a weakness. All this violence—what good—will it do?”

Jacopo’s lips curled into a sneer. “Spoken like a true Medici,” he said. “Get out of my way, I’ll deal with your treachery later.”

He tried to shove him aside, but Francesco held firm even as Jacopo aggravated his wound and made fresh pain shoot through his body. “No,” he said stubbornly.

“Francesco, stop it,” Lorenzo said behind him, and now he was trying to pull him out of the way too, albeit more gently. “You’ve already been stabbed once today on my account, I won’t let it be twice.”

Jacopo stepped even closer and Francesco raised his dagger, pointing it at him. Jacopo let out a bark of surprised laughter. “You would kill me, nephew? For _him?”_

Would he? Could he? “No,” Francesco said, lowering his dagger again. “But I would let you kill me.”

Jacopo considered him for a long moment, the faintest flicker of unease crossing his face, and Francesco couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of his own heart. Would Jacopo really kill him? Was his hatred of the Medici so strong that he would kill his own nephew to get his hands on Lorenzo?

Then Jacopo’s expression hardened with resolve, and he lifted his dagger. Francesco closed his eyes—

But the blow didn’t come. Instead there was a strangled gasp, and Francesco’s eyes flew open again. He saw Jacopo standing frozen, his eyes wide and mouth open as he looked down to his midriff, which had the end of a sword emerging from it. And as Francesco’s mind struggled to process what was happening, the sword was pulled out and Jacopo crumpled to the ground, revealing Giuliano standing behind him.

Francesco and Lorenzo must have looked equally shell-shocked, but Giuliano just shrugged. “It didn’t seem like either of _you_ were going to do it,” he said matter-of-factly.

Francesco gazed around the Duomo. It was deserted now except for the three of them and the bodies (unconscious or dead?) of the conspirators who hadn’t fled. The pain of his injury and the shock of the events finally caught up to him and he fell to his knees, reaching out towards Jacopo.

He placed his hand on his chest, over his heart, but there was only stillness there. His eyes were wide, staring, unseeing. Francesco’s vision started to fade.

“Francesco,” he heard Lorenzo say, but it sounded as if he was calling to him from very far away. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and then he passed out.

* * *

Francesco woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom. He squinted in the darkness and as his vision swam into focus, he was surprised to see Guglielmo and Lorenzo. They were both asleep, sitting in chairs by his bedside. First Francesco felt overwhelming relief to see Guglielmo safe and sound, then confusion as to why Lorenzo was there. Surely he had better things to do.

But Francesco didn’t puzzle over that for too long, as within minutes he’d drifted back off to sleep.

This time he dreamed. He dreamed that he was back in the Duomo, but now it was him rather than Jacopo who was standing over Lorenzo with a dagger and his hands covered in blood. He dreamed that he was on his knees in front of Lorenzo and hearing him coldly order his execution, that there was a rope around his neck growing tighter and tighter—

Francesco woke up sweating and gasping for breath, as if there really was a noose choking him.

“Shh, it’s all right. You were only having a nightmare.”

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Lucrezia de Medici’s face came floating into his vision. He realized she was dabbing at his forehead with a wet cloth. “What—?” he began, but she hushed him again.

“Just rest. You’re safe here,” she said gently, and Francesco obediently closed his eyes and allowed sleep to take him once more, a distant hazy memory of his own mother wrapping comfortingly around his mind.

When he woke for good, there was light streaming into the room and he was alone. But not for long. Francesco was just considering getting out of bed when the door opened and Giuliano walked in. “Ah, you’re awake,” he said. “The others will be pleased, you’ve been giving everybody quite the scare.”

“Where am I?” Francesco asked, his voice coming out rather croaky. He coughed slightly and noticed there was a glass of water waiting on the little table beside his bed, so he took a sip.

“You’re in our home, of course,” Giuliano said. “Where else would you be?”

The rhetorical question gave Francesco pause. Where else _would_ he be? His own home? There would be no one there to tend to his wounds, not now that Jacopo…

Francesco clutched the water glass tighter, staring into it. “My uncle…he’s really—” He cleared his throat again. “He’s really dead?”

“Yes. I killed him.”

Giuliano did not apologize for doing so, and Francesco did not ask him to. “What happened…after?”

“We caught Salviati and some of the others, and they confessed that they’d been forming a plot to—well, I suppose _you_ know exactly what the plot was, don’t you?”

Francesco finally looked up and met Giuliano’s eyes. His expression wasn’t quite accusatory, but it was definitely wary. “Yes. I know,” Francesco said. Salviati must have told them about his part in the conspiracy. He was oddly glad of that; he didn’t know how he would’ve been able to look Lorenzo in the eye and confess himself.

“They’re being held now, and they’ll all be tried by the Priori,” Giuliano said. “You will too, I suppose.”

“Oh.”

“But Lorenzo is already insisting that you not be punished, so I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Giuliano added. “I’m sure he’ll persuade them to agree.”

Francesco shook his head; he _deserved_ punishment. Lorenzo had always been far too forgiving for his own good. “Why did you come in here, anyway?” he asked at last.

“I…wanted to thank you,” Giuliano said. “For saving my brother’s life.”

Francesco looked away. “I don’t want your gratitude, Medici.”

“Well, you have it nevertheless.”

And Giuliano walked out again, shutting the door behind him and leaving Francesco alone with his thoughts.

His next visitor was Guglielmo. “How are you feeling?” he asked anxiously, coming to sit beside him.

“I’ve been better,” Francesco admitted. “But it’s not so bad.” The sharp pain from the day before was more of a dull, throbbing ache now.

There was a brief silence; Guglielmo looked like he didn’t know what to say. Francesco couldn’t blame him. It must be unpleasant to find out your brother is a traitor. “That was why you sent that letter,” Guglielmo said at last. “Inviting me and Bianca to the villa. So we wouldn’t be at the Duomo when…”

Francesco couldn’t meet his eyes. “Yes.”

“You tried to protect us.”

Francesco snorted. “It was only because of me that you needed protecting in the first place.”

Guglielmo put his hand on his shoulder. “But you did the right thing in the end,” he said. “Lorenzo told me how you saved his life.”

“It was only because of me that it needed saving.”

“Francesco. Look at me.” After a moment, he did. Guglielmo was looking at him with such affection, it made his throat close up. He didn’t deserve that affection. “You did the right thing,” Guglielmo repeated. “Uncle manipulated you. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It _was_ my fault. I’m not a _child,_ Guglielmo, I knew what I was doing,” Francesco said, suddenly angry. “I wasn’t just some—some puppet who—”

“I only meant,” Guglielmo interrupted gently, “that Uncle temporarily blinded you with his own hatred of the Medici. But you were able to see through it eventually, and ultimately you made the right choice.”

“But—”

“I won’t sit here and listen to you blame yourself all day,” Guglielmo said, getting to his feet. “I have to go to the bank anyway to check on things, and you should rest more.”

Francesco’s eyebrows drew together. “The bank—it must be chaos there,” he said, trying to get out of bed. “They’ll need me to—”

“No one needs anything from you right now,” Guglielmo said, pushing him back into bed. “I know you’ve always had a better mind for the business than me, but for the time being, I have everything under control, I promise. And once you’re well again, you can take over.”

“Fine,” Francesco grumbled, knowing Guglielmo was not going to budge. “But come to me if there’s any problems, all right?”

“I will,” Guglielmo promised, and he patted him on the shoulder before departing.

Shortly afterwards, Clarice came with a small plate of food. “I thought you might be hungry,” she said.

Francesco _was_ a little hungry, but also sort of nauseous and he wasn’t sure he could stomach any food. Though he had no idea when he’d last eaten—he’d been too nervous the morning before mass—so he figured he should probably try. “Thank you,” he said, taking a piece of bread and nibbling on it.

He expected her to leave again, but instead she sat down in the chair Guglielmo had vacated a few minutes earlier. “Does it hurt much?” she asked, gesturing to his bandaged side.

“No.”

Clarice nodded and was quiet for a while. “It was meant for Lorenzo,” she said. “The knife that stabbed you. Wasn’t it?”

Francesco took another bite of bread to stall. “Yes,” he said at last.

“You saved his life,” Clarice said. “Thank you, Francesco.”

Why did everyone keep thanking him for planning to murder the Medici and then changing his mind? “I don’t deserve your thanks.”

“On the contrary. I would be a widow right now if not for you.”

“You would be a widow because I would have killed him,” Francesco said. He swallowed, temporarily back in the Duomo, the dagger cold and heavy in his hands as he stared at Lorenzo’s back. “I would have killed him.”

“Yet you chose not to,” Clarice said. “And that outweighs whatever intentions you might have had previously.”

Francesco sighed. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Trying to…absolve my sins.”

“Because you’ve already repented of them,” Clarice replied. “You planned to do something wicked, yes, but then you chose not to do it. And not only that, but you risked your own life to save Lorenzo’s. How can I fault you for that?”

“Still, I—I’m not worthy of your kindness.”

Clarice smiled. “I’ll be the judge of that,” she said. “You may have strayed off the path of goodness, but you returned to it when it mattered most. You have a good heart, Francesco. I know it.”

She kindly pretended not to notice Francesco wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He found himself thinking of Novella suddenly, Clarice’s kindness reminding him of her. More tears welled up in his eyes, the ones he’d refused to allow himself to shed when he’d first divorced her.

Another one of the good things in his life that he’d let Jacopo poison.

“Clarice,” he said when he felt he could speak. “You and Novella were friends, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, looking surprised at the abrupt subject change.

“Do you…do you ever hear from her?”

“Yes, we still write to each other. I had a letter from her earlier this month, in fact.” Clarice bit her lip before saying, “She is to marry again. A Scotsman. Her father arranged it.”

Francesco closed his eyes, his heart clenching painfully. “I see.” What right did he have to be upset? After what he’d done to her?

“She did not really desire the marriage, but she had no choice in the matter,” Clarice said softly. “But she says he is a good man who will treat her well, at least.”

Francesco knew Clarice meant the words to comfort him, but he felt rather as if he had been stabbed again. Novella’s new husband was a good man—Francesco wasn’t. He would treat her well—Francesco hadn’t.

“Do you think—would she mind terribly if I wrote to her?” Seeing the uncertain look on Clarice’s face, he hastily added, “I don’t mean to interfere in her new marriage. The last thing I want is to ruin her happiness yet again. I only want to apologize for everything I did. I should have done so long ago, but I was too much of a coward.”

Clarice’s expression softened. “I’m sure she would like to receive such a letter from you,” she said. “I will copy down her father’s address for you later.”

“Thank you.”

After Clarice left, Francesco had some solitude at last. He finished eating as much as he could, and then he decided to try getting out of bed. His entire body was stiff and aching, and standing up made the pain in his side flare up. Nevertheless Francesco took several slow laps around the room, gritting his teeth against the pain the entire time.

He should have asked Clarice or Guglielmo or even Giuliano to bring him a book; there were none in this room, and Francesco didn’t feel capable of walking much farther to find one. He ended up sleeping for another couple of hours out of a sheer lack of anything else to do.

Then, finally, Lorenzo came to see him.

“Come in,” Francesco said when he heard the knock, expecting Clarice back with Andrea Foscari’s address or perhaps Guglielmo with bank business to discuss.

But his heart gave a jolt when the door opened and Lorenzo walked in instead. “I’m glad to see you looking better,” he said, giving him a small smile. “How do you feel?”

“I’ll live, I expect. Unless the Priori have anything to say about it,” Francesco said, Giuliano’s words suddenly returning to him.

“They’re _not_ going to put you to death,” Lorenzo said firmly, moving to sit beside his bed. “I intend to tell them that although you may have been part of the plot beforehand, on the day itself, you had a change of heart and saved my life. Twice. No one could possibly see fit to punish you for that. You behaved heroically yesterday.”

Francesco snorted loudly, but by now he was too weary of refuting claims of his heroics to argue. “Why are you here?” he said instead.

Lorenzo shrugged. “To check on you. I would have come earlier, but I’ve had much urgent business to deal with today, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m sorry about your uncle,” Lorenzo said after a brief silence.

“Don’t be,” Francesco said dully. “He would have killed us both if Giuliano hadn’t…”

“Still. He was your uncle. Your family,” Lorenzo said. “He raised you since you were a child. You have every right to grieve.”

Francesco’s jaw worked for a moment, and then he looked away. “Well, I don’t grieve.”

Another silence fell, a long one this time. Francesco wished Lorenzo would just leave instead of sitting there staring at him. “If you have something to say,” he said finally, “say it.”

“I suppose I wanted to know…why did you do it?” Lorenzo said.

Francesco stared down at his hands. “It was like I said that night we argued. I believed that the Medici were tyrants, that you were keeping Florence in the past—”

“No, I didn’t mean why you wanted to kill me,” Lorenzo interrupted. “I meant, why did you _save_ me?”

Francesco looked up at him, startled. “What?”

“You had been planning it for weeks. Everything was in place. I was sitting right there, unarmed and unaware. You had a perfect opportunity,” Lorenzo said. “So why didn’t you take it?”

For a minute Francesco just stared at him, lost for words. How could he answer that when he didn’t even know in his own heart why he had thrown himself in front of that knife? “I was going to do it,” he said at last. “I had the dagger in my hand. But when the moment actually came…I just couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why couldn’t you do it?” Lorenzo pressed

“I just told you, I don’t know,” he said impatiently.

“Why, Francesco? Why couldn’t you kill me?”

“Because I cared for you once!” Francesco burst out, surprising even himself.

“Once,” Lorenzo repeated. “Do you still?”

“What?”

“Care for me. Do you still care for me?”

Francesco furrowed his brow, baffled by this line of questioning. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.” Lorenzo leaned forward, their faces only an inch apart now. Francesco locked eyes with him and found that he couldn’t look away, couldn’t move back to create more space between them.

“What do you want from me?” he said softly. “What do you want me to say?”

“You almost died for me, Francesco,” Lorenzo said. “I want to know why. Why would you do that? Why were you willing to die for me? Why did you tell Jacopo you would let him kill you for my sake?”

Francesco felt like he was getting lost in the intensity of Lorenzo’s gaze. He swallowed and licked his lips, which were suddenly very dry. “Because…because I…”

Then, for the second time in as many days, he stopped thinking altogether and acted solely on gut instinct. He finished closing the distance between them and pressed his lips against Lorenzo’s, kissing him frantically, messily, pouring into the kiss all the frenzied emotions he’d been feeling the past two days. All the anguish and anger and desperation and…and love.

Lorenzo sighed and started kissing him back almost immediately, his mouth moving against his, lips parting slightly to let Francesco’s tongue enter. Francesco devoured him greedily, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that he had ached to do this for months, years, but had refused to ever admit it even to himself.

A lifetime passed before they broke apart for air. Francesco slowly opened his eyes—he’d hardly noticed he’d closed them—and saw Lorenzo staring at him, surprise written all over his face. “Francesco…”

At once Francesco felt shame, mortification twisting in his stomach. _What had he done?_ He jerked back even farther and turned his head away, praying that Lorenzo would leave before he did something stupid like cry in front of him. Praying that Lorenzo wouldn’t be disgusted with him or mock him, that he would silently agree to never speak of this again or acknowledge that it had happened.

But a second later Lorenzo’s hand was touching his cheek, tilting his face back towards him. Francesco was forced to meet his gaze before he was ready, knowing and hating that Lorenzo could see the vulnerability in his eyes. And then, to his confusion…Lorenzo _smiled._ He smiled in that way Francesco had come to know and love so well. The smile he would’ve done anything to receive.

Lorenzo smiled, and he tugged Francesco back towards him and kissed him again. He was cupping Francesco’s face in both hands now, and Francesco hesitantly reached up to tangle his own hand in Lorenzo’s hair. He closed his eyes again and savored the feeling of Lorenzo’s lips against his, of his hands on his skin, and for the first time all day he no longer felt the pain in his side or in his heart.

“Why were you willing to die for me?” Lorenzo asked yet again.

Francesco let out a breathless laugh. “I think you know the answer to that by now.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Because…because in that moment I realized that dying myself would hurt less than seeing you dead,” Francesco said. “Because I realized I couldn’t live without you. Because…I love you.”

Lorenzo smiled at him again, that beautiful smile that made Francesco feel like he had conquered the entire world. And Francesco couldn’t help but smile back at him. “I love you too,” Lorenzo said, and then he was kissing him again.

A few minutes later another knock sounded on the door, and Lorenzo hastily scooched his chair back to a more appropriate distance. “Come in,” Francesco said, trying to make his voice come out steady.

It was Clarice, carrying ink and parchment and a book. Francesco nearly flinched at the sight of her, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. It must have been difficult enough for her when Lorenzo was having an affair with Lucrezia Donati; surely whatever was brewing between Lorenzo and _him_ would be even more painful. And after she had shown him such kindness today.

“The address of the Foscari residence in Venice,” she said, handing him a small piece of parchment with writing on it. “And I brought you these in case you wanted to write to her now.”

“Thank you,” Francesco said, avoiding her eyes as he took the writing materials from her.

Clarice left again, and Lorenzo said, “You’re writing to Novella?”

Francesco raised an eyebrow at his sudden downcast expression. “Yes. Only to apologize,” he said. “She is marrying another soon.”

“Oh. But…you still love her.”

Francesco chewed on his lip, sighing. “Of course I do. She was my wife,” he said. “A part of me will always love her. But it’s in the past. That chapter is closed now. I will probably never see her again anyway; her new husband lives in Scotland.”

“I see,” Lorenzo said, but there was still a slight edge to his voice.

“I don’t know what you have to be jealous of,” Francesco said as he began addressing his letter, using the book Clarice had brought him as a flat surface to write on. “You have Clarice, after all.” Now _he_ sounded jealous, to his embarrassment.

But Lorenzo smiled. “Frankly, I believe Clarice is aware of my feelings for you.”

Francesco nearly knocked the inkwell over. “What?!”

“She hasn’t said anything directly, but I’ve gotten the impression more than once that she knows.”

Why was Lorenzo so calm about this? “Then we can’t—that is, I would never wish to hurt her,” Francesco stammered. “Not when she’s already been so much kinder to me than I deserve—”

“Relax. She doesn’t mind,” Lorenzo said. “She knows I care deeply for her, and if my heart belongs to you as well, what does that matter? Love is complicated and need not be limited to only one person. Besides, I’m fairly certain she’s been growing much closer with Lucrezia Donati these days.”

Francesco spluttered in astonishment as Lorenzo grinned. “You mean your wife—and your former lover—and _you_ don’t mind?”

“Why should I mind? Like I said, love is complicated.” Lorenzo moved closer and rested his chin on his shoulder, kissing him on the cheek. “And I have a new lover now myself, so I’m more than content.”

“Now, just one moment. I never agreed to us being _lovers,”_ Francesco protested.

Lorenzo looked amused. “Didn’t you? I seem to remember you saying you love me.”

“Well—yes, but that’s not the same thing as _being lovers.”_

“Ah, I understand. So if I leave this room right now and never kiss you again, would that make you happy?”

Francesco glared at him, but Lorenzo just continued grinning. “You know it wouldn’t,” he muttered.

“Exactly. So therefore—” Lorenzo kissed his jawbone, lightly nipping it with his teeth “—we are lovers.”

Francesco rolled his eyes. “Fine. Unless the Priori decide to exile me.”

“Oh, they won’t,” Lorenzo said confidently. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

* * *

“Francesco Pazzi was involved in planning the conspiracy, it is true,” Lorenzo was saying, his voice ringing out through the room. “But at the crucial moment, at the moment he could have killed me, he chose not to. Instead, he protected me. He allowed himself to be stabbed in my place, and he almost died. Shortly afterwards when Jacopo Pazzi was threatening my life, Francesco again stepped in and protected me, again risked his life. He went against his own uncle for my sake.”

Francesco could feel every pair of eyes in the room on him—including the angry, betrayed glares of Salviati and the other conspirators, who had just been sentenced to exile—but he tried to focus only on Lorenzo. His lover. Even now, with his fate hanging in the balance, the thought made him have to fight back a smile. Days had passed and he could still hardly believe that Lorenzo actually loved him, but by some miracle, he did.

“Are these the actions of a traitor?” Lorenzo continued, and Francesco forced himself to stop daydreaming and focus. “Are these the actions of an enemy of Florence? It is entirely thanks to Francesco that my brother and I are alive today. I’ve spoken with him privately at great length over the past several days, and I can assure you that I have the utmost faith in his loyalty to me and to Florence. He’s seen the error of his ways and has done more than enough to repent of his past mistakes. Would you punish him for this?”

“We shall put it to a vote,” the Gonfaloniere said as the room was filled with murmurs. “Lorenzo de Medici proposes that Francesco Pazzi be pardoned for his part in the conspiracy. Gentlemen, are you for or against?”

“For,” Lorenzo said.

There was a long silence as the other members of the Priori looked uncertainly between Lorenzo and Francesco. And then Bastiano Soderini got to his feet. “For,” he declared.

The votes began coming more quickly. “For!” That was Francesco’s last-minute replacement.

“Against!” Jacopo’s replacement.

“Against!”

“For!”

“Against!”

“For!”

Francesco let out a breath. That was five in favor and only three against. “And now I shall cast the final vote,” the Gonfaloniere said. He looked at Francesco and gave him a nod. “For. Francesco Pazzi is hereby pardoned.”

There was a mixture of applause and grumbling, but Lorenzo turned to Francesco and beamed. Francesco smiled back, the knot of anxiety that had been in his stomach since Easter morning finally starting to loosen. It was over. Lorenzo and Giuliano were safe, and so was Florence. All the conspirators were either dead or about to go into exile. Francesco had been pardoned. It was all over.

“I can’t believe you managed to get me _completely_ pardoned,” Francesco said as he and Lorenzo walked back to the Medici home together. Or rather, Francesco limped back home and Lorenzo stopped every two steps to ask if he needed help, to which Francesco grumbled that he was perfectly fine, thank you very much. “I’d thought at least a temporary exile…”

“Are you doubting my skills of persuasion?” Lorenzo said, putting a hand on his chest as if Francesco had deeply wounded him.

“No, only the favor I hold amongst the Priori.”

“Well, they might not let you return to their ranks right away.”

“I can live with that. I’ve had enough of politics for a while,” Francesco said with a huff of laughter that quickly turned into a pained wince.

“Here, let me help you,” Lorenzo said, moving towards him.

“I’ve told you, I’m _fine,”_ Francesco protested as Lorenzo slung Francesco’s arm over his shoulders and put his own arm around Francesco’s waist. “Stop it, Lorenzo, what will people think?”

“They’ll think I’m assisting my friend who was stabbed a few days ago. Nothing scandalous about that,” Lorenzo said serenely.

Francesco continued complaining most of the way, but secretly he enjoyed feeling the warm support of Lorenzo beside him. And it _did_ make walking easier.

The rest of the Medici descended upon them as soon as they walked in the door, demanding to know the outcome. Lorenzo shared the good news and Francesco was immediately engulfed with congratulations and hugs; even Giuliano clapped him on the back and said Florence wouldn’t have been the same without his _joyful_ presence. But Francesco could detect genuine warmth under the sarcasm, and that—combined with a dozen kisses on his cheeks from Lucrezia and Bianca—almost made him tear up, to his embarrassment.

Was this what it was like to have a proper family? People who loved you unconditionally, regardless of the mistakes you made?

When he next had a moment to himself, Francesco finished his letter to Novella, which he had been agonizing over for days. He read through it one last time, trying to decide if he should change anything. He opened with the usual pleasantries, inquiring about her health and such, and then he gave her as detailed an account of the events of Easter Sunday as he could. She might already have heard the news from another source, or would have by the time this letter arrived, but Francesco wanted her to have his version too.

 _The events of the past few days have finally made me realize what a fool I’ve been,_ he ended with. _I can never begin to atone properly for the way I treated you. I was a monster and I am so sorry, Novella. Please know that there is nothing you did wrong. The fault lies with my uncle for poisoning my mind against you, and most of all with me for letting him. But you are not to blame even in the slightest._

_I know our time together has passed and cannot be recaptured. My aim in writing this letter is not to persuade you to come back to me, only to apologize for all the pain I have caused you. I do not expect your forgiveness—I am not worthy of it—but I hope that having my apology will bring you some degree of peace. If it does not, you are free to throw this letter on the fire and never think of me again._

_Clarice tells me you are to marry again soon. I give you my sincerest congratulations and best wishes. You deserve all the happiness in the world._

_Warmly,_

_Francesco_

He ran into Clarice on his way to send the letter out for delivery. “Let me take that for you,” she said, holding her hand out. “You should be resting, you’ve already had a trying enough day, being dragged to the Signoria and back.”

“I’m all right, really,” Francesco said, but he allowed her to take the letter from him nevertheless. “I hope it will not be much longer before I’m back on my feet, and then I can return home and stop abusing your hospitality.”

“Don’t be silly, we all enjoy having you here,” Clarice said. “Lorenzo especially. Even despite the chaos of these past days, I can see how happy he is to have you back in his life.”

Francesco regarded her nervously. “Yes…”

Clarice gave him a knowing little smile. “You needn’t worry. I understand,” she said. “Lorenzo loves and respects me, and that is everything I could ever want. I do not mind sharing his heart, as long as you don’t.”

Francesco shook his head in amazement. “Of course I don’t mind. I never thought I would even be granted the smallest piece of it.”

In a gesture of unexpected but gratifying affection, Clarice kissed him on the cheek and departed with his letter. Deciding to take up her suggestion of rest—he _was_ feeling rather tired after the Priori session—Francesco returned to the guest bedroom he’d started unconsciously thinking of as _his_ room. As if he belonged here. As if this was his home.

He had just reached the door when Lorenzo turned the corner, holding little Piero in his arms. “There you are,” Lorenzo said. “I was just coming to find you.”

“What for?”

“Do I need a reason beyond wanting to spend time with you?”

Francesco ducked his head to hide a smile. “I suppose not.”

Lorenzo followed him inside and sat down on the bed, looking perfectly at home. “How is Piero?” Francesco asked, sitting beside him.

“Terribly fussy unless Clarice or I are holding him,” Lorenzo said. “He needs constant attention or else he sulks.”

“I wonder who he gets that from,” Francesco said, causing Lorenzo to huff in mock annoyance and bump him with his shoulder.

“Would you like to hold him?” Lorenzo asked next.

Francesco blinked in surprise. “Me?”

“Yes, you. He’s missed his godfather these past months.”

Lorenzo passed the baby over and Francesco gingerly took him, trying to remember how to hold him properly. Piero immediately nestled into his arms and looked curiously up at him. Francesco felt himself smiling, and he reached out to gently trace his finger over Piero’s face, marveling at how much he’d grown since the last time Francesco had seen him up close at his christening.

He felt a momentary stab of regret for all the months he’d lost in his misguided hatred for Lorenzo and the rest of the Medici, but it was difficult to be sad when Piero grabbed onto his finger with his tiny hand and cooed happily at him. Francesco laughed, and so did Lorenzo.

“He likes you,” Lorenzo said, wrapping his arm around Francesco’s waist and pulling him close against him.

“God knows why,” Francesco said wryly.

“Hush, don’t talk like that. You are marvelous,” Lorenzo said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Francesco felt himself blushing; he didn’t think he would ever grow used to how free Lorenzo was with his affection.

They sat quietly for a while, both watching Piero as he gave a little yawn and gradually drifted off to sleep. “You were right that day, when you said that Florence would be at its best when its families stop fighting amongst themselves. I should have realized it sooner,” Francesco said at last. “But Guglielmo and I are the last of the Pazzi now, and neither of us have any desire in continuing this ridiculous feud…”

Lorenzo smiled. “So there will finally be peace between the Medici and the Pazzi? Jacopo said it couldn’t be done.”

“Jacopo was wrong about a great many things,” Francesco said. “I don’t want to fight against you anymore, Lorenzo. I want to work alongside you, to help you make Florence the great city it’s meant to be.” He looked down at Piero sleeping peacefully in his arms. “To make another world for future generations. A better one.”

Lorenzo leaned in and kissed him, softly and sweetly. Both were smiling when they drew apart. “I would like that. But it doesn’t only have to be another world for future generations,” Lorenzo said. “It can be another world for us too.”

**Author's Note:**

> The real Novella Foscari did indeed marry a Scotsman (Alexander Stewart) after the death of Francesco Pazzi, so that wasn't just some random shit I made up haha


End file.
